by John Decure
“The what?”
“No.”
I was wrestling with a false memory.
“I’m sorry. That’s not how it happened. It was… Bobby Dennison’s dad, another kid’s dad, he rescued me. My father… shit—he wasn’t even there.”
“Quite a story, Craig.”
Apparently I was making David squirm. But I couldn’t stop talking. Driving down a dark highway to Malibu, revealing an unpleasant chunk of my past I’d effectively buried till it was forgotten—how had I come to this point so quickly? Where was the control the modulation, the pre-planning, the safety that wrapped me up so comfortably? I had no clue, and couldn’t stop talking, my throat rank with bitterness.
“What else is new? He couldn’t make it. A lecture on campus, or maybe a meeting with colleagues on the thesis committee. Details. Bullshit anyway. Pick an excuse, he had a million.”
Embarrassed I’d brought it up, I shook my head. “True confessions on PCH.” I shouldn’t have missed that dinner with Mom.
“Whatever gets you through the night, doc. All right by me.”
“Thanks.”
Reevesy sat silently across from me for a time. The marching streetlights flared orange across our faces, but nothing could sway us.
“You’re a shrink.”
I nodded.
“You analyze dreams?”
“Yes. Sometimes even against my better judgment.”
He chuckled faintly. “Got it. If you don’t want to…”
“We’re here,” I said, “and it’s dreamtime for about ten million others who wisely, are home in bed right now. What the hell.”
He tightened his fingers around his knee before flexing them loose. Sat up straight.
“All right, here goes. It’s always the same. I’m out and about, on the town, walking in sunshine and all that, living life, a click in my step. Don’t know exactly where I’m headed, but my mood’s sky high, I’m owning that big, wide sidewalk, everything’s gonna be lovely. Then I turn a corner, and there’s this storefront with a huge glass display window. Inside the window, there’s a tuba. For sale. And I get this overwhelming sense that I’m out walking today not just to soak in the vibe, enjoy myself, but instead, for the sole purpose of walking into that store and buying that bloody tuba.”
We took the next Coast Highway curve in silence as I waited.
“So, I don’t go in. I keep walking, but now I’m tired, feet of clay. Glum. The whole day, my mood, it’s all gone to shit.”
This time he waited. “Know any tuba players?” I asked.
We both grinned. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he said. “You are good.”
“Think about music in general. Whatever comes to mind, just let it happen.”
“Well. Dunno. Used to play the violin, there you go.”
“How long?”
“Forever. Least, it felt like it at the time. Grade school all the way through high school orchestra. Stuffed it back in the case after graduation. Haven’t played it since.”
“Why not?”
“It was always a blasted chore. Practice, lessons, rehearsal. Did it to please the peeps, you know, but I never had the passion.” A patch of darkness—in this light, a mere suggestion of the Pacific Ocean—opened up on our left, and he stared into the space briefly. “Not like Luke. My older brother.”
“Tell me about Luke.”
“Didn’t know him all that well, in all honesty. He was nine years my senior.”
“You said he had passion.”
“Oh yeah, he had it, and the talent. Talent to burn. ‘Lucky Lukey.’”
“Why was he lucky?”
“I played my arse off and never made one sound as pure and clean as Lukey could. I’d practice and the neighborhood cats would scatter. When he played, people passing by would stop and stand outside to listen, even in the dead of winter.”
“Tell me the rest,” I asked when Reevesy went silent again.
“Luke aspired to be a jazz musician. Went to New York ’cause that’s where a trumpet player goes if he’s serious about playing jazz. So he did, for a time. Cut a record or two, got some press. It’s here nor there. He didn’t play the tuba, never touched one, far as I know. Dead end, eh.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“He wasn’t so lucky after all. Had some down times. Got hooked on heroin, somewhere along the line. Died on a bench in Central Park. In February. Cops who found him said he was frozen solid. He’d been living in the park a while. No one knew the depths he’d sunk to. Went through all his money, sold off his stuff, even his horn, anything and everything to make the next buy. My mum refused to accept the fact that he was gone. At Christmas, she’d put presents under the tree for him. His birthday, she’d bake a cake and sit by the window.”
“I’m sorry.”
Reevesy sniffed. “And to think, I’m the black sheep, the big disappointment ’cause I’m queer. Bloody Luke pisses his life away, and Mum canonizes him. But the gay one? Forget about it.”
“Your parents, were they religious?”
“French Catholic. It’s how I was raised. My father the Brit converted from Protestantism to marry Mum.”
I eased off the gas a tad, lost myself in a zone I fall into when I’m analyzing by feel, letting my instincts take over. I can’t explain it, but this is what it must feel like to tap into an underground well with a divining rod. It’s why I love what I do, I guess.
“You know the story of the Prodigal Son.”
“Of course.”
“He’s Luke.”
Reevesy sat up straighter. “Okay, I’ll bite. That part’s easy enough to see, except in the parable, the Prodigal Son goes away and is presumed dead, but he returns. Lukey’s dead-dead.”
Jesus, I felt so alive I thought I would burst.
“He sold his horn for heroin.”
“Right. The sorry bastard…”
“He pawned it. That store you’re walking by in your dream, it’s a pawn shop.”
“But it’s a tuba, doc, not a trumpet.”
“I know. That’s the unconscious mind for you. It’s not always tidy. What it does symbolize, what I think it’s telling you, is that there’s a brass wind instrument in the window, for sale. A tuba. So big you can’t possibly miss it walking by.”
“But I do keep walking by.” He paused. “Oh—there you go. Right. Crashing down in the dumps every time I do pass by. That’s the problem. So, if I stop, go in the store, then what?”
“You tell me.”
Reevesy gazed up into the hillside shadows this time, as if he’d had enough black ocean for one night.
“I buy back his horn. Reclaim it, the best part of him.”
“That’s right. And how do you do that?”
We passed the next mile like we were floating in slow motion, just us and the night.
“Forgive the poor bastard,” Reevesy said at last. Then he sat back, and as he did, he made a slight whistling sound. “There’s no other way, is there?”
“You tell me.”
“Spot on, Doctor Craig.” Then he whistled again. “How’d you do that?”
“Do what? You more or less talked yourself through it.”
“Nah, you’re brilliant, man.”
I thanked him for the compliment and shut up, sensing there was more.
“And Mum—you wanna know what’s ironic? She never even knew the true circumstances of his death. We shielded her from the truth. Pops insisted on that. I always thought it was too damn hypocritical for words, and… here’s the thing: I’m not proud of this, but I can’t count how many times I wanted to burst her little bubble, fill her in on a few dirty details.” He sighed. “The gay little brother, jealous to the end.”
“But you didn’t, David. That’s what matters.”
“How the hell could I? She’d have gone to pieces.”
“She lost her son. That was enough loss for a lifetime. You knew that.”
My unspoken suggestion was tha
t David forgive himself. As the family outcast, he’d acted honorably, and with great generosity, toward a mother who’d been unfair and unkind to him. But self-love is a sensitive subject. What I hoped for David was too private a notion to put into words, and I wanted him to reach that place of recognition on his own.
“Funny. All this was ancient history before tonight. Same old shit, different day, you know? But right now, it’s all staring me in the face, brand new.”
“You’re giving this a fresh take.”
“Gotta say, it feels good, but…”
“Scary?”
“Yeah—yeah!”
“What you’re doing? It takes balls.”
More silence. We passed the spot where Topanga Canyon Boulevard dead-ends into PCH. A blackened, empty beach lot blended with the night sky. Beyond the lot was a cobblestone point where surfers rode waves, but tonight, it was all in my imagination. Zero visibility.
David snapped his fingers. “You see? It’s fate. This is it, this is why I’m rooming with a looney tunes lawyer who rushes off to surf alone in the grip of night. So I can have my tuba dream interpreted by the amazing Doctor Craig Weaver.”
He reached across with an open palm and shook my right hand heartily. Then we fell into silence. Enough personal breakthroughs for one night. Where a moment ago I was exhilarated, now I was simply dragging ass. A sign that told us Malibu was three miles ahead flew past. Raking my hair through my fingers, I glared at myself in the dark of the rearview mirror. The clock in the dash read 2:17. Glad to assist David Reeves, but this at the core, this still felt like a fool’s errand, a wellness check on a woman who was not even my patient and who, by my best guess, suffered from depression or psychosis or an anxiety disorder or perhaps all three. A lawyer with a flair for confrontation, a thing for leather, and this… wild, black, amazing hair. God, she made my head spin. Probably was done with me the minute she walked away downtown. What would I even say to her tonight?
By comparison, analyzing a dream never seemed so easy.
Just past the Malibu Pier sign Reevesy pointed, at a dark shiny Chevy muscle car with surf racks on it parked on the ocean side of PCH. I swung a U-turn across the empty roadway and pulled up behind it.
“She’s out there.” David pointed toward the ocean, which could be heard much better than seen. I locked up and we trudged down onto the beach, my flip-flops sinking and bogging down instantly in the cold sand. I took them off and carried them in one hand. It was too dark and we had to wait for our eyes to adjust.
“Look,” I said.
A rider on a wave, a figure at least, tall and perfect as a Greek statue, near the pier. Or… no. Was I seeing things?
David was peering in a different direction, toward the point of land to our right. “Let’s cut down, get closer to the rocks, and have a better look.”
We made our way down to the edge of a field of shiny cobblestones, rounded but as black as lava. The sand abutting the rocks was gritty and bit at my soles as we trudged along. Reevesy stubbed his toe and grunted. I kept checking over my shoulder for the surfer I’d seen by the pier, but the reflections under the pilings were oily and smooth. No one there. If my feet didn’t hurt so badly, I could’ve been dreaming.
Fifty or sixty yards farther up the point we found her, lying on her side, a great plank of a surfboard a few feet away.
“Stay away, get back or I’ll kill you!” she screamed.
Reevesy and I stayed put, but only for a heartbeat or two.
“Brad, darling, it’s me. And your friend, Doctor Weaver.”
“He… he jumped me!”
I looked up and down the beach, behind us, even toward the water. No sign of an attacker. No sign of any living thing.
“We’re here,” I said. “Just us. You’re safe.”
She laughed. “Says who? Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not out there.”
“Let’s get you warm and dry, doll, eh.” Reevesy helped her to her feet.
Bradlee tried to stand, but stayed half-bent.
“My ribs… are sore. I suppose that’s a figment of my very colorful imagination too, Doctor Weaver?”
I was way beyond my comfort zone as a clinician, and as a man.
“I’ll get the board,” I said.
“Knock yourself out.”
She seemed thrown by my presence. Confused, I decided to ignore her hostility. Reevesy removed his v-neck and wrapped it around her shoulders. They started up the sand. When I hefted the surfboard, I was shocked at how heavy it was. Jesus, I had a good sixty pounds on Bradlee; so how was it that a twig like her could hoist this tank off those roof racks and lug it down here all by herself? The damned thing was so wide, I couldn’t trudge more than a few feet before dropping one of my shoes. Had to set the board down, panting. Dropped the other shoe another fifty feet up the sand and had to stop again. I went this way—panting, dropping, and stopping—all the way back, and by the time I made it to a broken-down old wall separating the beach from the parking lot, I was way behind.
Suddenly, I felt a powerful urge to relieve myself, as in my haste to blaze out my front door, I’d forgotten to pee. Alone, I set the board down for the eighth time and did my business, the old wall glowing an eerie gray beside me. I stared at the facade, which, in the near darkness, had a certain purity of form and placement, a brilliant utility—like a mythic barrier built to hold the entire mundane world at bay.
My pupils had slowly dilated, and I could make out more details. Bradlee’s hulking plank of a surfboard was actually a very glossy, attractive item, finished in a deep purple or red, with a carefully centered triangular logo and a slash of white racing stripe from nose to tail. The sound of surf breaking also got my attention, and I turned and stared down my leaden tracks in the sand. Out on the water, what I took earlier to be odd puffs of smoke were not smoke, but the tops of waves blown back by this warm, almost summerish breeze. The kind of wind that brings out the pyromaniacs. Wow, best of luck to their psychotherapists; I guess you’d try to focus the patient on impulse control and take it from there….
Reevesy called out after me. Taking up the board again like a cross I had to bear, I took a cue from my burning biceps and held the nose up, letting the tail drag gently in the sand. Put it back down after banging along a bit farther—Bradlee might get upset if I damaged the rails. Better to give my arms a brief rest and take it from there.
I squinted as shapes emerged upon the wall facing me: spray-painted graffiti, crudely formed letters adorning the wind-blasted brick-like modern cave paintings. One nearby message, not five feet from my head, stood out bigger and bolder than the scrawl surrounding it:
DORA LIVES
So they say.
Following an impulse I did not understand, I looked south, toward the pier with its thin glaze of light on the water below, the place where I thought I’d seen the rider—a surfing shadow man, posing like a god.
A wave swished up the shore and spilled nearby and the rocks chattered a California song, like shaking a pan of fool’s gold. A dry sudden gust of wind nearly flipping the surfboard up into my shins, mocking my inexperience. The beach is a spooky place at night, an abandoned fun house. Another gust of breeze laughed in my ears. With a grunt I hoisted the board and was out of there without looking back.
12
BRADLEE AAMES
Men—they can beat me, but they can’t stop me. Analyze me, patronize me, simplify me, sanctify me, vilify me, brutalize me, criticize me, categorize me, underestimate me, overprescribe me, anesthetize me, scrutinize me, defy me, decry me, despise me, objectify me, ostracize me.
Burglarize me.
Even jump me on the sand at Malibu. Like I said: beat me.
A girl. From behind! Cowardly, cowardly, cowardly, cowardly!
And I know that was you, Mr. Heidegger, you and your co-coward, Dr. Don. A break-in and a beat-down in one day? Even in my giant chess set of a life, that’s two moves too many against this White Pawn.
It will not work. I will beat you. I will stop you.
But to do that I need evidence. Witnesses. At the top of my witness list, the victim’s ex. A man.
Too bad for you, Andrew Loberg. Nothing personal, of course, but too bad for you…
* * *
ANDREW LOBERG
Women. They just can’t be trusted. If my customers—and about 98 percent of them are guys—knew this simple truth, I’d be out of business.
See, I deal in the sales and service of custom street motorcycles, mostly brand-new Harley Davidsons right out of the crate which my crew modifies in the shop out back; plus the odd classic chopped hog, barely legal Triumph or vintage Indian I might take on consignment from a hard-luck seller here and there. No rice burners, please—I almost didn’t see my eighteenth birthday when I gave a Kawi 900 too much clutch in that tunnel that swoops left before pointing you north on the 405 freeway, coming out of Seal Beach. I may not be the smartest guy around, but my brains aren’t gonna be ant food splattered on the roadway, that’s for sure; I’ll leave the crotch rockets to the kids, the helmetless punks who twirl around the showroom, spinning throttles and lies like the fearless dumbasses they are.
But wait, I was talking about women, and I do have a notable history with the ladies in my business. Ten years ago I was in the red, strictly month-to-month, chewed up by the competition of two bigger Harley shops not far from my place, slowly dying from shitty advertising no one seemed to take notice of and nonexistent foot traffic in my neck of the woods. By chance, I hired a gal, Ophelia, a tattooed beauty-school dropout who happened to waltz into my place in my darkest hour, looking for work. Turned out, one of my competitors was hiring and she’d misread the ad, but we got to talking. That Ophelia, she knew her bikes. Also had her own set of tools. I had a backlog of flat tires, oil changes, tune-ups, and a lot of pissed-off customers. Ophelia cut through the workload like a hot knife through butter. She was good, but even better to look at—a hot knife in her own right, if you know what I mean—and just like that, half my crew’s productivity went straight to hell. When my best lacquer guy stared at her so long he ended up sending a fifteen-hundred-dollar flame job up in smoke, it was the last straw—I stuck her out in the showroom with a price sheet and a ballpoint pen.
